


Alone This Holiday

by theletterelle



Category: Bandom, Panic At The Disco, The Young Veins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Angst, M/M, Prostitution, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-29
Updated: 2011-12-29
Packaged: 2017-10-28 11:19:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/307335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theletterelle/pseuds/theletterelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brendon hasn't been working the street long enough to have encountered all the kinks. Still, you'd think he would have dealt with this before now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alone This Holiday

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jedusaur](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jedusaur/gifts).



> Title from the song by The Used.

It hasn’t snowed in Chicago yet. Whether that’s normal or not, Brendon isn’t sure. He grew up seeing snow on all the Christmas cards his family sent to each other, and he’d looked forward to real seasons when he left Nevada, but so far there’s only icy rain and the wind that cuts through him like razor wire at night. He burrows deeper under the covers, curling up as small as he can to conserve heat.

He hugs himself tighter and decides to hit the Salvation Army tomorrow for blankets and maybe some gloves. Maybe he can find a top that’s both warm and sexy, though he can’t imagine what that might look like. Maybe a fur bikini? It would be awesome if he could find a fur bikini. If nothing else, he wouldn’t freeze his nipples off. Plus, no one else on the block would have one. It’d probably get him clients out of curiosity at least. Yeah, he definitely needs to look for that.

“Hey Ryan,” he whispers. His breath steams in the early morning light. “Do you know where I could find a fur bikini?”

Ryan rolls over with his back to Brendon. Brendon knows he’s not asleep, but he lets Ryan pretend. He doesn’t feel like dealing with Ryan’s hissed sarcasm if Ryan’s not in the mood to talk. Which he never is. So fuck him, Brendon can take a hint when it bashes him over the head.

He snuggles down as tight as he can and breathes hot into his hands. It sucks. They don’t pay huge amounts of money for the room, but it’s enough that they should be able to expect the heat to work. Maybe he can ask Pete to talk to the manager. The worst Pete can do is-- well, he can do worse than say no, but Brendon doesn’t think he will. Pete’s not mean for the sake of being mean, as long as you’re polite and take no for an answer. He’s not Ryan.

-o-

What Brendon misses most is being touched. He tries to pretend, sometimes, with the clients (always clients, never johns; Pete has delusions of respectability) who are gentle and don’t hold him down or shove his face into the pillow while they fuck him. There are a few who like to snuggle afterwards. Brendon can almost fool himself into believing, then. It never lasts long enough. They remember they have somewhere else to be, or that someone’s expecting them at home, or they just plain don’t have the money to pay for another hour. They leave, and Brendon goes back to the block and slants his hips at the cars that creep by.

Ryan doesn’t have to be so obvious. Ryan leans against the streetlight, the orange glow shining off his hair and filling the hollows of his cheeks with shadows. Cars stop for Ryan without him so much as crooking a finger, and he saunters over, boredom written in every line. Brendon doesn’t know how or why, but Ryan can make half again what Brendon pulls in in a night.

Brendon stares at him and wonders what it’s like to sleep with Ryan. Not have sex with him, although he wonders that too, would like to find out what the clients see in him. But in this weather Brendon would just like to curl up with someone warm, even if it’s Ryan, who looks like he’d be all sharp corners. He wonders if sleep makes him softer.

A car slows, catching Brendon’s attention, and he moves automatically, slinking up to the car and leaning his arm on the door. “Hey. Need directions?” It’s cheesy, sure, but it’s better than _Lookin’ for somethin’, sailor?_ which even Brendon admits was a loser of a line.

“Yeah,” says the man in the car. “Know anyplace I can hang out for an hour or so?”

That’s the right answer. “Yeah. I can show you, one sec.” Brendon opens the door and slides in, blessing the heated seats in the car. He’s about to point out the motel on the next block when the man looks past him out the window.

“On second thought,” says the man, “you should bring your friend. He looks lonely.”

Brendon’s eyebrows raise. “It costs more,” he says, abandoning all pretense that this isn’t a transaction.

“No shit,” the man says. He jerks his chin at Ryan, standing in the pool of sodium light. “Go get him.”

Brendon mourns the loss of heat, but slams the door shut behind him and walks over to Ryan. “He wants us both.”

One of Ryan’s eyebrows goes up, but he doesn’t say a word, just uncoils himself from the not-quite-shelter of the streetlight and saunters behind Brendon. He slides into the backseat, pulling Brendon with him. “Did he tell you the price?” Ryan asks the man. The man shakes his head. Ryan eyes Brendon with barely concealed contempt. “A hundred an hour. Bruises or broken skin is extra.”

Brendon’s never charged more than thirty. The man pulls out onto the street, so Brendon guesses he accepts it. Jeez. Brendon can’t imagine having that much money to throw away in pursuit of getting off.

Ryan doesn’t look at him when they get out of the car, and Brendon has to wonder for the thousandth time what he’s done to make Ryan hate him. He gets that Ryan looks down on him, and he understands that-- Ryan’s been doing this a lot longer, and Brendon must seem hopelessly naive even after three months-- but Ryan’s attitude bypasses disdain and heads to outright loathing. Brendon accepts it; he just doesn’t understand why.

The room is shabby at best, with a sleazy bedspread and corners it’s probably best not to look into too closely. Ryan slouches against the table bolted to the wall and runs his fingers through the dust. Brendon tries to match Ryan’s cool aura, but settles for standing with his hands behind his back as the man locks the door and turns to them.

A smile twitches at the corner of the man’s mouth. “Shirts off,” he says. Brendon and Ryan both strip down. Goose bumps raise on Brendon’s skin. He can hear the wind blow outside. The man surveys them both for a moment, then makes a decision. “You,” he says to Ryan. “Punish him.”

Brendon’s eyes flick to Ryan’s face. Ryan looks unfazed. “Like how?” he asks.

The man pulls the bedspread off and lets it puddle around the end of the bed. “Spank him. Bareass. I don’t care with what.” He sits on the bed and points to the lone chair by the table.

It shouldn’t be a shock. It is. Spanking is utterly banal, one of the most common kinks in existence, but Brendon’s never been faced with it. It’s one of the few times in his life Brendon hasn’t been able to find words. His mouth goes dry, and his hands twist around each other as he watches Ryan sit in the chair and beckon to him. Somehow, Brendon makes his feet move. It feels unreal and all-too-real at the same moment.

“Tell him what you’re gonna do,” the man says.

Ryan looks up at Brendon. “I’m going to spank you,” he says calmly.

“Uh.” Brendon swallows. “Um. Okay.”

“Show some respect,” the man says to Brendon, a note of impatience creeping into his voice.

“Okay. Sir.”

“And tell him why,” the man adds.

“Because you’re loud,” Ryan says. “You don’t know when to shut up. You think the rules don’t apply to you, and you don’t listen whenever anyone tries to tell you anything. And you don’t. Stop. Talking. Ever. Now take your pants off and get over my knee.”

Brendon can hardly hear over the buzzing in his ears. His hands move of their own volition, untying his shoes and peeling down his tight jeans. The heat must be broken here too, because he’s shivering. He shuffles to Ryan’s side and lets Ryan guide him down until he’s bent in half, balanced on his fingers and toes in a position he thought he’d left behind long ago. From above, he hears a sigh. He doesn’t know who it is. He closes his eyes.

The first slap echoes like a gunshot. Brendon jerks and nearly falls off Ryan’s lap, saved only by Ryan’s other hand grabbing him around the waist. Ryan slaps his ass again, and again Brendon jerks, though not so hard this time. It’s the sound at first, Brendon remembers, the sound and the shame. The pain comes later.

Brendon’s embarrassed himself before, God knows. He’s made jokes that came out a lot stupider than they sounded in his head; he’s tripped over nothing and knocked the wind out of his lungs; he’s laughed so hard milk came out of his nose; he even threw up in class one time. He’s been a fool in front of more people than he can count. But nothing has ever felt more humiliating than being punished in front of a stranger by someone who won’t even talk to him. Brendon hangs his head between his arms and breathes. He flinches every time he’s struck, even though it doesn’t really hurt yet, because it will soon. He can feel it coming.

The stinging creeps up fast, going from prickly to fiery in sharp slaps. Brendon winces and clenches his ass against the pain, but it doesn’t help all that much. Someone’s breathing louder, but whether it’s the man, Ryan, or all three of them, Brendon can’t tell. _It doesn’t hurt that bad_ , he tells himself, _you’re an adult now, you can take it._ He doesn’t believe himself. His whimper doesn’t sound any older than it used to.

After a while, Ryan stops, shakes out his arm and shifts Brendon in his lap. Brendon cooperates. All thoughts of his payment have flown out of his head. He just wants it to be over as soon as possible. When Ryan starts spanking him again, Brendon gulps and tries not to cry. It _hurts_ , and he knows that’s the point, it’s supposed to hurt, but nothing changes the fact that it hurts and it’s _not fair_. Even when he did deserve it, it was never fair. He can’t hold the whimpering back now, but he bites down hard on his lip and holds his breath to keep as much inside as he can.

“Tell him you’re sorry,” the man says, breathless, and Brendon desperately wishes he could cuss him out. “I’m sorry,” he says instead. “Ryan, I’m sorry.” Ryan lands a truly hard blow across both his ass cheeks. Brendon, taken by surprise, cries out, and above him, the man groans. “I’m sorry,” Brendon says again, his voice wobbling. “Please. I’ll do better. Please, Ryan, I’m sorry, please, stop, I’m sorry.”

The next few strikes demolish the last of Brendon’s self-control, and he starts to cry. He hates himself for that. “Please,” he says again, his voice going up high, “I’m sorry, I said I was sorry, don’t, no, please, please--”

There’s a fierce grunt, and then something wet splashes across Brendon’s ass. Ryan finally, blessedly stops. Brendon feels the wetness trickling down his back and squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn’t want this to be happening. His ass burns, it’s hard to breathe, and he wants to go back to bed and never come out again.

Ryan tugs him up. Brendon stands there with his head down and his hands gripped tightly together. It’s a shock when he feels skinny arms wrapping around him. “Hey,” says Ryan. “All done. You’re forgiven.”

That’s when Brendon really starts to cry. He leans into Ryan, and Ryan lets him, holds him, presses him skin against skin. Oh God, Brendon’s missed this. He just wants to be held. He presses his face against Ryan’s shoulder, smearing his tears and his eyeliner all over. Ryan lets him. At least, until the door closes, then Ryan pushes him away. Brendon takes a step back, confused.

“Get dressed,” says Ryan, shoving Brendon’s shirt and jeans into his hands. Brendon stares at him. Ryan picks up the money from the table and shoves it into his pocket. “Well?” He raises an eyebrow, and Brendon puts his shirt back on.

Ryan leads him out, back to the block, and the wind wipes off whatever tears are left. Brendon’s jeans feel tighter, and his ass still burns. It doesn’t keep him warm. Ryan divides up the money, giving Brendon extra. “The guy tipped pretty good. I guess he liked the crying thing.” Brendon just nods. He doesn’t look at the money.

The night’s almost over, so they aren’t standing there too long before the sky lightens and the cars are numerous enough to be called traffic. This is when Brendon usually bugs Ryan to go to breakfast with him, and Ryan blows him off, and Brendon shrugs and goes anyway. Today Brendon is silent, and follows Ryan back to their room. Ryan keeps turning and looking at him strangely. Brendon won’t meet Ryan’s eyes.

“What the shit,” Ryan says flatly when they get back into the room. Brendon turns his back and tugs off his jeans, wincing at the drag of the fabric. “Jesus, Brendon, it’s a spanking, so what?”

Brendon thinks of a million responses and discards them all. He pulls on his sweatpants and settles on “I don’t like it.”

“Oh my God.” Ryan sits on his bed and pulls off his shirt. “Don’t tell me you’ve been doing this for months and you’ve never been spanked before, what the fuck.”

Brendon considers not answering-- let’s see how Ryan likes it for a change-- but Ryan is actually talking to him, and that’s not an event Brendon wants to let go. “Not since I left home,” he says. He puts on a hoodie and huddles into it. When he turns around, Ryan is looking at him with a weird expression. “What?” says Brendon.

“Nothing.” Ryan runs a hand through his hair. “So. Like. Are you... okay then?”

“What do you care?” says Brendon. “You don’t even _like_ me.” Ryan opens his mouth to say something, then closes it again. Yeah. That’s what Brendon thought.

He slides under the covers and draws his knees to his chest. The sheets are icy, and he closes his eyes and concentrates on sending blood down through his legs to his feet, warming them until the heat radiates back from the blankets. He’ll be warm again sometime. Maybe soon.


End file.
